One advantage of less customers is the lack of light pollution and fuel trails. It does not rain all the time. When the night skies are clear, three million rocks roll up there in a never ending rotation. I know some of them off by heart. One looks like a wheel of cheese with a slice cut out. Another in the shape of a spear. I have discussed seeing them up on the mountain before, but there’s nothing like watching them from the roof of the bar.
Even now some ships try to weave a path through that crushing maze. The idea still exists that somewhere there is a golden route, that halves your time in the Scar, and leaves your ship undamaged. It is a dangerous dream that some travellers still follow.
Which I am pretty sure is what happened yesterday.
The ship was landing too fast. That was obvious, but not unstoppable. But the tail glowed with a bright green light seen only when dangerous chemicals catch fire. Down it went, like a distress flare burning out.
That was about four hours ago.
The ship must be over three miles away. I still heard the crash as it hit the ground. It was an absolute beast of a vessel, some kind of cargo ship with very few windows, and a hold designed to store enough provisions to feed a city for six months. The green light lit up the landscape, revealing nothing but empty landing fields. Some birds fluttered from their night time perches.
I was hoping a handful of rather shaken but generally cheerful crew members would knock on the door. By this point I should be applying plasters to grazed elbows, and opening a bottle of something strong.
It has started raining again. Just as I have decided to head out. The drops his the roof like fingers drumming, already bored with my decision.
Next week I’ll let you know what I found. Hopefully someone who wants a drink.
